


Uncle Illya

by theredhoodie



Series: The Man From Uncle Drabbles [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crossover, Cute, Drabble, Kid Fic, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredhoodie/pseuds/theredhoodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha does not know a lot about the man whose front door she is dropped off at one day. She’s six, but she’s a very smart and mature six. She’s a six that plays with black cats in alleys, but hides a pencil in her coat sleeve just in case. She’s a six that looks at someone like she’s lived a decades already. She is such a mature six that she surprises herself even more when she slips so easily into calling Illya Kuryakin “Uncle”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncle Illya

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely little prompt I got on tumblr and had so much fun writing. Originally posted [here](http://maxrockertansky.tumblr.com/post/128077468228/maximovff-replied-to-your-post-since-ive-now-got).

Natasha does not know a lot about the man whose front door she is dropped off at one day. She’s six, but she’s a very smart and mature six. She’s a six that plays with black cats in alleys, but hides a pencil in her coat sleeve just in case. She’s a six that looks at someone like she’s lived decades already. She is such a mature six that she surprises herself even more when she slips so easily into calling Illya Kuryakin “Uncle”.

It takes about an hour.

They already played a game of chess, with Natasha catching on quickly, sitting on the edge of her seat, bouncing her legs when she got bored, but knowing better than to say so. Natasha has since forced him to turn on the radio and she has been dancing around, showing him how much better she’s gotten.

She doesn’t know why she says that, she can’t remember ever meeting him before, and yet he nods in approval and names her poses perfectly, as if he is one of the mothers who brings their daughters to dance class.

When she says she’s hungry, there is a flash of panic that goes through his face. (She doesn’t know this, but he has nothing in the cabinets, since he always eats with Gaby or Napoleon.) It quickly passes and he helps her on with bright red shoes and a wool coat to ward off the late November bite. He pulls a hat over his hair and holds his hand down for her to take. She has to stand on her toes to reach, but she does and prances beside him, pretending she’s practicing to wear ballet slippers.

“Where are we going, Uncle Illya?” she asks as soon as they step outside. She has to lift her other hand to yank the side of her hat down, covering her ears from the cold.

“To visit a friend of mine,” he says, tugging her along the sidewalk.

(He slows his steps greatly so that she can keep up.)

“Because they have food,” she says. It’s a fact. She’s not stupid.

“Yes, because they have food,” he replies. “Have you been taught any English yet?”

She tilts her head way back to look up at him but it results in her just squinting against the ice cold sun instead. “Yes,” she says in English. “I am still learning.”

“Good,” Illya replies, taking a turn at a corner. “My friend is just learning Russian.”

They arrive at an unfamiliar doorstep. Illya has let go of Natasha’s hand and she folds her hands in front of her, a picture perfect image of a polite six year old. Illya knocks on the door.

(To Illya’s slight surprise, Napoleon answers the door.)

“I thought you were away, Cowboy,” Illya says, looking over the man’s shoulder into the apartment.

From her short height, Natasha can see a dark haired woman hopping toward the door as she yanks on a sock.

“Illya!” she says. “Who is this?”

They’re all speaking in English, and Natasha is proud of herself for understanding. She even introduces herself in English. “My name is Natasha Romanova. How do you do?” She even does a little curtsy.

“She is adorable,” the woman says. She crouches down so she’s eye level with Natasha. “It is very nice to meet you, Natasha. My name is Gaby Teller. I’m friends with…”

(Gaby tilts her head to peer up at Illya, a question on her face. It’s a blatant question. He doesn’t miss it.)

“I am just watching her,” Illya says at the same time as Natasha says, “Uncle Illya.”

“Charming,” the other man says.

Gaby gets to her feet and lightly raps her knuckles against Napoleon’s abdomen. “Be nice, Napoleon,” she chides.

Natasha, though mature, is still six and her stomach is making noises like a monster so she steps forward and says. “Uncle Illya has no food. We came here to eat.”

Illya sighs, Gaby laughs and extends a hand to Natasha—which she takes willingly and follows her inside—and Napoleon mumbles something to Illya that Natasha misses because it’s spoken low and in English. She doesn’t care though. She’s hungry and Gaby is leading her right to the kitchen.

“Napoleon is a great cook,” Gaby whispered to her. “Illya was right to bring you here.”

“I think he was,” Natasha says with a determined nod.


End file.
